Reflection

Even though I came to Ringling for an art major, I was required to take this writing course. At first, I thought it would be the same blatant and distasteful repeat of the high school writing classes, so I came in without much expectation. But this was not so. Although I did not intend to, I learned more in this writing class than any previous literary course taken beforehand. I believe this is because this writing class also focused its primary concern on how to make us a better narrator, a better storyteller, which is primarily what an artist is.

            As the first class of my Monday mornings, it is hard to get motivated to write. But this course has taught me to pull through and become a better writer. I truly believe that my writing abilities have changed drastically. Not only did this course teach me how to write properly, I was taught how to read properly. I never thought that I would have to learn how to read again, especially in college. But nonetheless, I can pinpoint an author’s direct and deliberate wording, sentence structures, and the aesthetics of writing. Getting many professional viewpoints and tips from actual writers was an enormous help to us students. Getting tips from famous writers such as Stephen King was even better, for these famous writers have bonafide evidence that their word goes. These guidelines are essential in knowing how to write a successful essay and how to create a good composition while retaining your argument.

            There were many projects, in class assignments, and studies we had to complete that were beneficial to our progression. A significant project that stood out to me more than the others was the snapshot portfolio. I absolutely adore creating short stories, and it was one of my strong suits. To create these five individual shorts was an arduous task, but a very satisfying one at that.  Even in these stories, it was extremely evident that I progressed as an individual. A little excerpt from one of my short stories: “He awoke. His eyes fluttered open, being greeted by a midnight sky. The velvet sky was like a wondrous canvas, etched with paint and shifting colors, hues of beauty captured in a majestic grandiose scale. The stars were burning with a feverish light, desperate to be noticed. Each star was a freckle upon the sky, building together as if a foundation of atoms woven to make a body. “ This little tidbit is proof I have developed as a writer. I would never have written so elegantly in my high school career.

            This writing course was essential to me, as a computer animator. If I had a redo of this semester, I believe I would have done nothing differently. I am actually quite satisfied on how I have progressed as a writer, and an artist. The advice I would lend to next year’s students is not to underestimate this class; for even though it is not a media art, it is vital for your narrative capabilities.

Artist Statement

Peter Ma

Artist Statement

                                                       The Superman Inside

            From a very young age, I always knew what I wanted to be. When growing up, people always had a set profession that they wished to pursue. Was I destined to be an artist? Probably not. My fate was to be accepted into Yale, and major in law. Or perhaps my fate was to go into the music industry and rivet hearts with beautiful sonatas. But sometimes fate is tricky. In fact, most of the time people do not get what they want. Is this something I wanted to do? Most definitely yes.

            This journey began at a far earlier age than most people can anticipate. The trek of becoming an artist is never an easy one, and never simple. There are always complications, paths, and tragedies. Often it is the optimal depressive option, and very rarely is it a fun and quirky backstory. But I have the fortuity of saying my story is not a tragedy.

Who do you look up to? Who is your hero? What do you want to be when you grow up? My dad. The policeman. An astronaut. Typical answers of a five year olds inchoate and embryonic brain. Trite, mundane, yet looking at the pragmatic entities of their fledgling life. Perhaps I was just an unrealistic soul, due to my carbon-copy answer scrawled unceasingly in my kindergarten chicken scratch. Time and time again would this being introduce itself into my crayon sketches, make believe games, and figurine limbs. Numerous occasions my chubby head would look back to this guardian and protector of people; Superman.

            But how could I have the indecency of castrating real beings into a dehumanizing spiral of injustice while revering a fake immortal? At this stage of my nascent beginnings I could not comprehend that Superman was a cartoon, just a pixelated illusion of someone else’s creation. I regarded him as a person who can liberate the bad, and an Übermensch to my teachers. Frankly I also kept him closer than any of my other incomprehensible drooling Gerber munchers.

            I legitimately accepted the fact that this spandex-wearing man was real, that cartoons were just as tangible as me. Clark Kent’s story spoke to me, its ingenious plot being a fly-trap to a romantic for justice. The power of the cartoon was enthralling, captivating every twist and tunnel in the recesses of my mind. To actually believe that someone whisked this epic chronicle was unfathomable. To believe that someone concocted a story so subtly it beseeched the reality of my own world. My life was fused with Superman’s, reality and cartoon becoming one, becoming me. I thought I was Superman.

            Eventually, it became painfully obvious that I indeed, was not Superman. I could not lift immeasurable amounts of weight like him, I could barely stumble into the kitchen with the groceries. I could not fly into the forget-me-not blue, no matter how many times I jumped off my bunk bed. And I definitely did not have the ability to emit solar energy from my eyes, regardless of how hard I stared at my teacher. But no matter how vain my efforts were, I would not surrender on my own, I would not be downtrodden into accepting the banal physics of life.

            My mother, being the realistic and sensible person she is, explained and reasoned that Superman was not real, and I shouldn’t aspire to be something that isn’t real. Grudgingly, I tied in all the pieces and realized I was not Superman. I realized that a normal person with an artistic mind composed this magnificent fantasy. I realized that I too, could be this person.

            Who do you look up to? Certainly not Superman. The only person I should compare myself to is me, I am my own greatest triumph.

            Who is your hero? Certainly not Superman. I’m my own hero, I’m greater than the Übermensch.

            What do you want to be when you grow up? Certainly not Superman. I want to be a story teller, a distributor of images, an animator.

Regret

The man took off his suit, folding it precariously, and then placing it on the wood in the fireplace. He stripped till stark and naked, putting the rest of his articles upon the firewood as well. The blood from his clothes began to drip slowly, with a well-organized cadence, the rhythm matching his unsteady heartbeat. He breathed heavily as he lifted his deep crimson tie in front of his face, fumbling with his lighter. Finally igniting a spark, he pressed it against the tie. The bottom of the tie slowly shifted to black, finally catching fire. The embers steadily consumed the tie, the fiery tongues licking the sides of the cloth. The man tossed the burning fabric on top of the suit, the neophyte flames rapidly plaguing the clothes.

            Taking a deep breath he stared into the growing flames, warmth and color returning to his wan skin. His eyes glazed over with the fresh memories and blood. He remembered more than he wanted to, looked at more than he needed to. He rubbed his bare chest, his heart thumping so hard he’d fear his neighbors would hear. The man realized his hand was smeared with red as if he crushed a handful of raspberries. Taken aback he realized his whole front body was glistening with blood as well. Taking two steps back, he slipped into the bathroom. Purposely avoiding the mirror, he opened the glass door and flung the shower handle to maximum heat. He stepped into the cleansing water.

            The man took the pristine white soap, scrubbing it against his scalded skin. The crusted blood began to chip away, crumbling under the pressure of his harsh scouring. The crimson water cascaded down his flesh, swirling with fervor as it rounded the mouth of the drain like a merry-go-round. Completely cleansed of his outer filth, the man pressed his hands upon the bright yellow tiles, cold and unforgiving. The man accepted the liquid fire, turning his skin raw and red. His blood boiling as much as the water, he thought about what he had done. He hung his head, the water trickling from his nose and lips into the drain. The man was stricken with his actions and grief, no amount of alleviation enough to heal his soul. 

Paradise

He awoke. His eyes fluttered open, being greeted by a midnight sky. The velvet sky was like a wondrous canvas, etched with paint and shifting colors, hues of beauty captured in a majestic grandiose scale. The stars were burning with a feverish light, desperate to be noticed. Each star was a freckle upon the sky, building together as if a foundation of atoms woven to make a body. The man was lost for words. Was he dreaming? But he just woke up, hasn’t he?

            The man felt a drift, a brush, and a gentle stroke upon his fingers. He closed his eyes, exhaling from his mouth. His fingers gripped something so impossibly soft and wondrous he had to open his eyes again. In his grasp was sand, white sand slowly drifting away like powdered sugar from his hold. The wind took hold of the cascading sand, blowing it into swirls that floated into the horizon.

            The scent of indescribable beauty reached him, making him gasp. It was floral, and yet from a flower that was not of this earth. The man thought the smell was from a distant mountain glacier, a steady stream flowing down the side into an endless field of flowers. How he thought this was beyond his own comprehension, but he believed it to be so.

            The man heard a far off noise, a sound that whistled echoes of a more distant memory. He began to be nostalgic for something he did not recognize; reminiscent of something he could not remember. The sound came closer and retracted, coming closer still. Waves.

The man realized he was upon a beach. He lay on the shore as the water slowly slipped past his shoulders, a surprisingly warm touch washing over his flesh. The water vibrated with a phosphorous teal glow, consuming the shore with a baby blue light. He craned his head, entranced by the water. The water was clear as air, and warm as the sun’s radiance. It was as if all the stars fell into the sea, residing a new shelter within its warm depths. The sea was full of its own stars and light, glistening and magical.

            He lifted his hand out of this mystic water, bringing it to his eyes for closer inspection. A few unexpected drops landed upon his lips, inviting an extravagant taste. The flavor of this sea was enticingly sweet and light, making his lips curves into a smile he long forgotten.